


The Right Trousers

by SylvanWitch



Category: White Collar
Genre: Clothing Kink, M/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21707689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: Peter models a pair of trousers for Neal, with predictable results.
Relationships: Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey
Comments: 10
Kudos: 68
Collections: Spicy Advent - Multi-fandom Porn Advent Calendar 2019





	The Right Trousers

**Author's Note:**

> In my head canon, Peter, El, and Neal have a happy, trusting, loving threesome, so there's no infidelity here.

“Mmmm-hmmmm,” Neal says appreciatively, giving Peter a hungry once-over from under the brim of his rakishly tilted hat.

Neal has his bare feet up on the edge of the table, the cuffs of his lounge pants slithering down to reveal his ankles and a bit of calf, his arms dangerously bared by a paint-stained wife-beater.

Peter thinks that of the two of them, it’s Neal who reduces Peter to expressions of appetite, not the other way around.

Still, the way Neal is looking at him makes heat bloom and spread through his belly and parts south, and he adjusts himself a little in the tailored slacks, which are tighter than he’s used to. He imagines Clint’s face if he wore these to the office.

“I’ll blow you in the bathroom if you wear them to work,” Neal offers, reading Peter’s mind, as usual.

Peter feels the heat travel up his chest and his throat and into his cheeks. He’s on fire with it, and he’s not sure if he wants to crawl under the table or just into Neal’s lap.

He’d ruin his trouser knees, he reflects ruefully, and he’s not entirely sure he could get back up in these pants, either, without cutting off circulation to some pretty important bits. It’d be counter-productive, probably.

Even so, he wants to put his mouth around Neal.

When his hands go to the button on his trousers, Neal spends an expression on mock-disappointment before licking his lips, obviously expecting Peter to come over there and do a little follow-up questioning on Neal’s proposal.

When he steps out of the slacks and then drapes them neatly over a chair, Neal’s face changes, and it’s nice to see that Peter—staid, steadfast Peter—can still surprise him sometimes.

Then he drops to his hands and knees and begins to prowl toward Neal, and Neal makes a sound, like he’s just been punched in the solar plexus and he’s not sure where his next breath is going to come from.

It’s extremely gratifying.

By the time Peter has gotten to him, Neal has dropped his feet from the table, shoved his pants down to his ankles, and spread his thighs obligingly.

It’s Peter’s turn to make a show of licking his lips, which earns him another, breathier sound from Neal, who has reached out a hand to thread his fingers through Peter’s hair, just grounding himself, not making any demands.

Peter takes his time, sucking a hard kiss into the thin skin of Neal’s inner thigh, and Neal’s fingers tighten as he swallows a harsh sound. Peter skims the back of Neal’s knee with his fingers as he buries his nose in the crease of Neal’s thigh and then licks him there with the flat of his tongue, leaving a wide, wet trail.

Neal’s thighs are shaking and he’s making an insistent, impatient noise in the back of his throat by the time Peter licks his cock from base to tip and then wraps his lips around the head, sucking.

Neal bucks beneath him, lets out a decidedly inelegant stream of creative curse words, and lets go of Peter’s head to grip the edges of the table, which Peter takes as a sign to really get to work.

By the time Peter has Neal on the very edge—of chair and orgasm both—Neal is begging, Peter’s name and God’s and a series of inventive—if anatomically improbable—suggestions broken into harsh syllables as he gasps for air.

At last, Peter relents, relaxing his throat and taking Neal all the way in, at the same time trailing a purposeful finger between his balls and back, exerting a certain pressure just so, and smiling as Neal cries out and comes in a scalding stream down Peter’s throat.

When Neal has stilled, a wrecked and boneless mess slumped in his chair, Peter pulls back, taking care to cup Neal’s wet, quiescent cock in his hand, happy to have that precious gift for his own.

He’s hard as a rock himself, the angry red head of his cock poking through the gap in his boxers, but Peter doesn’t touch himself or move to rise. As hard as the floor is on his middle-aged knees, he likes his place there, so close to the evidence of what he does to Neal Caffrey, who like this is as far from the cool and elegant con artist as Peter has ever seen him.

“Hey,” Neal says, voice throaty and rough. He cups Peter’s cheek with his hand, pressing upward, and Peter follows the motion, putting his open mouth against Neal’s bitten-red lips.

Neal licks into his mouth, tasting himself, and it’s Peter’s turn to gasp as Neal’s hand worms into his boxers and begins to jack him in firm, confident strokes, Neal’s Cary Grant voice whispering filthy things into Peter’s ear, bringing him off expertly in under a minute as Peter grunts and thrusts, painting Neal’s bare belly and the floor with his spunk.

“You should definitely wear those to work,” Neal says after a minute or an eon. He sounds blissed out, exhausted and well-fucked.

“I’d get no work done at all with you around,” Peter observes, smiling.

Neal licks the corner of Peter’s mouth and whispers, “That’s the point.”

Peter resolves to wear them at his earliest convenience.


End file.
